


The Thrill of the Chase

by pixie_rings



Series: Let Love Grow [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They chase each other endlessly, but those chased are eventually caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thrill of the Chase

Breathless, though it’s not from exertion, he lets the Wind carry him, still marvelling at how he knows his every move before he makes it. From behind comes the thud of heavy paws, quick as lightning, and he daren’t turn around. The slightest distraction could get him caught, and although this is all for fun, he won’t let Bunnymund win, not for all the believers in the world.

They race through trees, Jack’s laughter crisp and merry on the air. The frost he leaves tastes like breathless joy, like wonder and friendly competition. All Bunnymund can do is swear, but Jack can hear the amusement, the merriment in the other’s voice, words holding no venom, only fondness.

He pirouettes, he vaults, he spins, weightless on the North Wind. Bunnymund lunges, leaps, bounds, heavier. The earth is his vector, and it’s almost like she and the Wind have an old grudge to settle. Jack and Bunnymund are their champions, pitted in a jubilant duel. This is what Jack loves. He loves how perfectly they work like this, always competing, butting shoulders, striving for dominance. It’s how they function, how their gears grind. He wonders if Bunnymund feels the same… but of course he must, because otherwise he would never agree to this dashing madly through forests and over plains, over snow and over grass.

At first, he had to do some terrible things to get Bunnymund after him: snow in the Warren, freezing the River of Colouring, well-aimed snowballs, nipping at the Pooka’s nose… But now there’s no anger in Bunnymund’s pursuit, no frustration, no desire for revenge for yet another joke he cannot take. Now there is only the same rush through his veins. Finally, someone to match his speed, someone with whom to run beneath the moon. A challenge.

With the thump of paw pads on wood he springs from a tree, and catches Jack around his waist. The snow lays thick here, and a drift catches them, and all they can do is laugh, laugh until they simply can’t anymore, and the delight is all implied.

Jack opens his eyes, they meet Bunnymund’s, green as fresh grass and glinting with something beyond humour, beyond amusement. Jack swallows, licks his lips, frost tickling his cheeks. All around them is white, all around Jack is soft fur, and he is the warmest he’s felt for decades. There’s something thrumming between them, something hot, heavy and like nothing Jack has felt before, alien to his cold, light wont. His fingers clench in grey, not enough to cause pain. Bunnymund grins, nose ever twitching, and the distance between them closes.

It’s the strangest sensation, Jack’s first kiss. He’d never expected this, after all. There’s fur and whiskers and it’s just weird in a way that’s a transport of delight, weird in a way that feels like it’s meant to be. Just because something is unusual, doesn’t mean it is wrong, after all. His fingers flex again, until he pulls away, overwhelmed by it. His cheeks are frozen, but inside he’s burning.

“What was that for?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Trying to be cocky and failing. Bunnymund shrugs.

“Thought I’d give it a burl,” he answers. Jack’s grin is mischievous, his default.

“Can’t keep your paws off me, huh?”

“Bugger off, ice block.” Where once it might have been snapped, now it comes with a roll of the eyes and an affectionate tone. Jack laughs, mirth and fresh snow, and Bunnymund decides it’s time to wipe that smirk of that face that shouldn’t be as lovely to him as it is.

The second time is less strange, more natural – although Jack wonders how this could ever feel natural like it does right now – and lasts longer. There’s more behind it, less elation and more feelings, and Jack can’t begin to fathom the damn things. They’re a tangle inside him, knotted strings he can’t untwine, but he has a feeling that in the end every thread will lead to Bunnymund. His arms wrap around the Pooka’s neck, dragging him down, deeper into whatever this will become. And neither seems to mind.

Quarry caught, the chase is now over.


End file.
